


Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

by GreedIsGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Keep Shady 2017, Petyr Baelish Week, Sex, costume porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 12:32:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12254457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen
Summary: Sansa knows exactly what she wants, but when it happens, it's not quite how she imagined it.Prompt: Costume Porn for Petyr Baelish week on Tumblr.





	Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

_The virginal brides file past his tomb_  
_Strewn with time's dead flowers_  
_Bereft in deathly bloom_  
_Alone in a darkened room_  
The count  
_Bela Lugosi's dead_

The sonorous tones of Bauhaus resonated in the elevator before it had even reached her destination. Much like it, Sansa was also vibrating — only with anticipation. The doors opened, and thick fog immediately filled the floor, coating her feet in murky grey swirls that hid her somewhat scandalously heeled Mary Janes. Stepping out into the 55th floor — the seat of power at Casterly Enterprises — was like stepping through a portal to another realm. Myranda had outdone herself on the decorations for Halloween this year.

Eerie lights cast a shadowy pallor in every crevice of the room. Jagged fake trees lined the walls, and some spaces in between — their sharp branches reaching out with pointy fingers, ready to grab and a tear. Scarlet curtains hung over the halls and doors to areas that were off-limits, serving as an ominous message to employees and guests not to trespass during their revelry. Overhead, a projector cast a midnight sky filled with the fluttering of bats and witches and a full moon. 

This floor was normally reserved for upper management. No peons called these offices home. It was designed to impress with high ceilings and wall length windows. Topiaries graced the balconies, and where the DJ and dance floor were now set up, rich leather sofas and weirwood tables could usually be found to impress potential clientele. The seating had been pushed against the windows, the tables sat in the corners. A banquet now lined the outer edges, and caterers and waiters flit to and fro making sure each ominous looking dish was replenished: grape eyeballs, finger sandwiches that actually looked like severed fingers, various desserts decorated with spiders and worms, a bloody punch, and delectable meats and linked sausages overflowed out of a fake body that lay strewn over the tabletop with a look of agony on it’s mauled face. The latter made for a grotesque sight, but Sansa hadn’t come for the food.

Sansa’s eyes searched out for anyone she knew. Tywin Lannister, the COO, was resplendent in full Dracula regalia. He cut such a menacing figure, even his golden laced hair couldn’t detract from it. Next to him, his daughter Cersei stood in repose, glass of red wine in her hand dressed as Queen of Hearts; her skin powdered to a chalky white, a wig of vibrant red hair piled high on her head, and a dour expression on her face. Sansa had the vague notion that she was deciding who’s heads to lop off, and stifled a laugh. She idly wondered what trouble Robert Baratheon, the CEO, might be getting into, only to see him — for at that height and build it could only be him — in a gorilla suit chasing a few scantily clad Fay Wrays through the throng on the dance floor. It didn’t appear that any of the other upper management had arrived yet, and she tamped down her disappointment. It was still early after all. Eventually, Sansa’s gaze landed on a particularly buxom Cleopatra talking with a helmeted knight and recognition dawned. She eked her way through the crush to reach them. 

Cleopatra’s eyes lit up when she saw her friend. “Well if it isn’t Little Red Riding Hood!” They enveloped each other in a quick hug. Looking her over, Myranda said, “You look good enough to eat, Sansa! Where in the world did you get your costume? It’s positively darling!”

Sansa shrugged at Myranda in her slinky gold dress. “I just lucked out.” 

That was a lie. A pre-packaged costume was dismissed as soon as she viewed what offerings were available. They seemed to swing towards wildly inappropriate to downright frumpy, and she’d be damned if she was going to lose her virginity in a polyester/spandex blend that barely covered her ass or a burlap potato sack that hid her every curve. 

Sansa, instead, had spent the last two weeks, painstakingly cutting patterns, and sewing forms. The result was more than pleasing; riding the knife’s edge between innocent, sexy, and professional. A knee-length black, pleated skirt that transitioned up into a fitted jumper. It put her ample cleavage on tantalizing display, and she couldn’t help be satisfied with the effect. Beneath soft wool, lay a gauzy, white silk blouse with billowing sleeves. And beneath that, well, that was for a certain someone to discover later. But over it all, was the crux of the outfit — the hooded red cape. It billowed down, just below her knees, sharply contrasting with her opaque white stockings. 

They lingered together in the corner, cackling as they watched Mace Tyrell attempting to dance to the Monster Mash. The knight Myranda had been talking to, lifted their helm, and was discovered to be none other than Mya Stone. Sansa thought she’d die of giggles at Mya’s ingenious ploy to avoid the opposite sex, but it wasn’t long lived. As soon as she revealed herself, Lothar Brune approached unperturbed by her unconventional costume. With his commando garb, the two made quite a sight. It was no secret in the office, how much he fancied the bastard daughter of the Old Stag, and when Mya turned around from him leading her to the dancefloor, a pleading look in her eyes, Myranda did the most Myranda thing she could. Gestured with her fingers, that universal sign for a sex — in, out, in, out — looking all too pleased with her jest while Mya’s face reddened in mortification. Sansa could only cover her mouth and try not to draw attention to their unseemly behavior with her jubilant laughter.

“Ah!” exclaimed Myranda as she hung off Sansa’s arm. “It seems our knight has found her prince. What about you, Sansa? Is your big, bad wolf here tonight?”

A flush crept into her cheeks. She hadn’t shared her intentions with Myranda, but the woman was uncannily adept at picking up what isn’t said, and Sansa hadn’t been exactly subtle hinting at her costume when he was around the office. “What?” she tried and failed to sound incredulous. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh no? So if I open that little basket in your arms, I won’t find a stash of condoms?” Myranda asked with a raise of her brow. 

Riding Hood raised her chin imperiously, refusing to answer, and quick as an asp, the gold draped queen’s hand shot out to open the lid. Sansa only barely succeeded in preventing Myranda from discovering the sordid stash within — her hand holding Myranda’s red tipped fingers in a vise.

The voluptuous brunette with her gilded plaits only smiled lasciviously in her victory. “I knew it. You can’t keep a secret from me, Miss Stark.”

“Fine,” Sansa whispered, releasing her. “I admit it. I’m hoping for a certain handsome predator to hunt me down tonight.” She sighed. “But it’s been over an hour, and I still haven’t seen him. Maybe he decided not to come.”

She’d been dropping hints about her costume for weeks, hoping that Joffrey would notice. They’ve been dancing around each other for years, but Sansa was underage. The Lannisters could ill afford another scandal after Tyrion ran off and married a known prostitute, and having the golden child of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister embroiled in an affair with an underage intern was not a risk that anyone was willing to take. So they mingled at social functions, passing sly smiles, and sharing dances, and he was nothing but a gentleman. However, her eighteenth birthday had come and gone, and still he hadn’t asked her out formally. She chalked it up to him finishing his degree at Yale, but tonight she was assured he would be here.

Myranda gave her a little side hug. “You worry too much. Petyr is always late to these things.”

Sansa’s mouth gaped, but Myranda didn’t notice. A loud beeping drew her attention, and she pulled her mobile out from between her breasts. “Damn. I’ve got to refill the fog machines. I’ll be back in twenty.” Then, she was off, laced sandals clacking against the marble tile as she left a very confused Sansa to muddle through what she just said.

Certainly, she misheard. _Why in the world would she think that I am waiting around for Petyr?_

It was true that they often worked together. Petyr had need for a second set of eyes and ears in meetings, and when he’d discovered that Sansa was Catelyn Stark’s daughter he was quick to take her under his wing. Without his interference on her behalf, Sansa was certain she would have quit a thousand times over. 

_He is handsome though_ , she thought. And he did treat her as an equal in the office, and didn’t talk down to her as Cersei or Tywin or — she was loath to admit — even Joffrey did. She’d be lying if she didn’t feel a little flutter in her tummy when they were alone together as well. But she couldn’t conceive that he’d be interested in her. Not like that. How many times had Aunt Lysa intimated over family dinners that she and Petyr were seeing each other? _Not that I’ve seen any evidence of it from Petyr_ , she conceded.

Sansa needed to clear her head, and decided to take a turn about the room. It would be rude not to say hello to the others present at any rate. She spied a rather too old, rather too dowdy Goldielocks lingering near one of the buffet tables. Upon closer inspection, Sansa realized it was her aunt. Oh Gods no! She quickly rerouted to the opposite end of the hall, making her way to the punch bowl near the DJ, and suddenly had the distinct impression she was being watched. Goosebumps prickled her skin. Looking over her shoulder, she saw what she was certain was a wolf tail swishing away from the booth, and overhead came the telltale twang.

_Hey there Little Red Riding Hood,_  
_You sure are looking good._  
_You're everything a big bad wolf could want._

Sansa bit her lip, abandoning her glass of punch at the table. She cut her way through the mass of bodies where they joked and drank. A fair few, she was certain had more than the punch tonight. Following, following, following until she was cut off in her pursuit. A large, multi person dragon paraded through the hall, curtailing her progress. When she was finally able to pass, she’d lost sight of her quarry. She stood on her tip-toes, desperate to find her wolf again, and spotted him. The tip of his tail had just passed behind one of the scarlet draperies into forbidden territory. She was suddenly hit with a bout of nervous energy.

_Oh Gods. Am I really going to do this? Lose my virginity at an office party?_

She took a deep, steadying breath before pulling the hood of her cape up, covering her mass of red curls. 

_Yes._

In her rush to cross that tempting threshold, Sansa nearly tripped over the tail of a lion — obscured as it was in the ever present fog — and rather than draw attention to the scene by apologizing, she ducked quickly behind the curtain. A silent prayer left her lips, hoping that nobody saw her clumsiness. After a minute passed with no indication that anyone had witnessed her exit from the party, Sansa turned on her heel.

The hall was dark, with only the scant light from the moon outside seeping through the window. If this were a horror movie — if she hadn’t traversed these halls everyday for over two years — Sansa might be frightened. She moved forward, into the dark expanse. Her heels emitting a barely audible _tap, tap, tap_. Before she could round the corner towards the CFO’s office, she felt an arm wrap around her from behind, pulling her into a warm body. Her hood was pulled down, her hair swept aside to expose pale skin.

The driest peck was placed on the back of her neck, then a voice came. A whispered growl against her ear. “It’s not safe for little girls to go walking in the woods alone.”

“Oh?” Sansa asked, a coy smile tinged her voice as she called over her shoulder. “Are you going to keep me safe?”

Hastily, Sansa found herself spun around, pinned against the wall. She couldn’t see her wolf in the darkness, but she could feel him. The cool breath that sang along her skin. The scratch of his stubble against her neck where teeth scraped and tongue laved and lips caressed, up and up and up, leaving a bruising trail along the column of her throat. Her fingers found themselves slipping into his hair. It was cropped short and coarse, and when her nails dragged over his scalp, a delicious moan filled her ears, traveled the length of her body until her toes curled in her too tall heels.

If Sansa had any reservations about what was happening, they were erased as soon their lips met. Joffrey had kissed her once, but it was a chaste thing — all sweetness and innocence. There was nothing chaste about the way she was being kissed now. It was raw and heady, and she barely had time to catch her breath. He tasted of mint. She was dizzy as the man worked his hands beneath the red cape she wore. The pads of his fingers taunting as they slid up her milky thighs, playing with the edge of her stockings.

“What’s this?” he asked, popping the strap of her garter belt. A tease.

Sansa’s face heated, and she was glad he was a blind as she in the moment. “A surprise.”

“Just for me?” She could hear the leer in his whisper.

“Yes.”

He groaned into her neck, biting lightly against the overwrought flesh there. Without warning, he picked her up, and in a flurry Sansa wrapped herself around him, burying her face into his neck as he carried her to a nearby office.

Only the slam of the door and the click of the lock made her look up. She’d thought all the offices would be secured at this hour. There was more light in this room, and she recognized it immediately. She had a protest on her lips — _We can’t do this in Petyr’s office!_ — but it was quelled before it began. Her wolf burying her words in his mouth before she’d even had a chance to look at him properly. His tongue driving all thoughts of right and wrong out of her head. 

_Gods, but he can kiss me forever if he keeps kissing me like that!_

She felt the cold wood of the desk press against her bottom where her skirt had been rucked up. 

“Lay down.” It was an order.

_This is it. He’s going to take me now._

Sansa panted. Her heart set a frantic tempo against her ribs. She couldn’t open her eyes, afraid that seeing him would bring reality crashing down around her; that she might wimp out at the last moment after coming so far. Then she felt him shift her legs, drape them over his shoulders. Firm hands gripping at her thighs, holding her in place. Heaving puffs of breath tickling the hair that covered her mound.

“No panties? Oh, _Sansa_ , you naughty girl. You’re perfect.”

His voice was no longer a whisper. The sound of her name ebbed off his tongue in an all too familiar lilt. Blue eyes shot open, and she raised up to her elbows to look down, just in time to meet the hunger in Petyr’s eyes; see him dive in between her legs to swipe his tongue in a tantalizing trail along her most intimate place. If he registered her shock, he didn’t acknowledge it, plunging her headlong into uncharted territory. Jolts of electricity rippled down her spine. Her head thrown back, thudding against the thick padded folder that rested at its center. 

_Gods! Fuck! Yesyesyes!_

A string of curses — obscene and desperate — left her mouth in place of breath. Fingers threaded into the grey hair at his temples, pulling him closer so she could grind wantonly against his skilful tongue, clinging intensely to the only anchor that stood any chance of grounding her. 

This was wrong. This was all wrong. Not at all the way she had planned for the evening to turn, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop him now. Not when her clit was being nibbled and sucked between his lips, causing such extraordinary pleasure. A pleasure that she would likely never in her life be able to replicate on her own. 

Her breath came stilted and halting as he worked. The heat at her core wound tighter, coiled fit to burst.

Petyr groaned against her, lifting his lips from her sodden folds. “You taste like heaven, sweetling.” He licked. She shuddered. “I could live off you for days.”

His mouth descended once more, sucking her clit into his mouth where his tongue lapped at it without mercy. Sansa whimpered, writhed, certain that she couldn’t take much more. Then, he thrust a finger into her. The intrusion surprising, but not unwelcome as it worked back and forth. Her back arched with each draw out, the heel of her shoe digging into his back. Each press hitting a spot so sweet, she thought she’d die from bliss. In the back of her mind, she wondered, _Does he know? Can he tell that this is all new to me?_

“So tight. So wet,” he murmured reverently into her skin. 

Another finger slipped in. Sansa winced this time, and Petyr must have seen it or felt the change when it occurred for he slid up her body, released the tie on her cloak with his free hand so that he might graze kisses along the tops of her breasts, her clavicle, her jaw, before meeting her mouth with his own. A gentle press against plump, parted lips. 

“Relax, Sansa. Let it happen.” It was hummed against her cheek.

Grey-green eyes watched her, and she wondered what he saw. Were her eyes glazed over with lust? Were they dark and hungry like his own? Was her mouth as swollen and glistening as his? Her face flushed with their exertions?

Without care of how far this tawdry exchange had gone, or how far she would allow now that he’d opened Pandora’s box, Sansa yanked him back down to her, tasting herself on his tongue as it delved and tangled with her own. That was all it took: his weight upon her, his fingers relentlessly fucking her, the taste — her taste. Petyr swallowed her cries down, gently stroking along her sex until the tremors ceased.

Sansa was exhausted. Her lids only just able to open enough to take in the look of absolute adoration on her boss-cum-lover’s face. He kissed her again, and it was only then that she noticed the raggedy fursuit he had on. The soft fur of it gliding through her fingers. Reclining her head back for a better look, she discovered he even had little tufts of fur sticking to the tips of his ears, and a painted black nose. She was unable to withhold the bubble of laughter from escaping.

His brows furrowed in consternation. “Care to let me in on the joke?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you!” She giggled. “Well… actually, I am laughing at you, but only because of this.” She tugged at the faux hair of his outfit, and he let her infectious amusement drift to his face.

Hovering over her lips, he quipped, “Well, I couldn’t let Little Red go off into the forest alone.” A gentle kiss glanced the tip of her nose.

“Generally, the wolf is hunting her though, isn’t he?”

“Who says I’m not?” He punctuated the question with a roll of his hips, and Sansa felt that jolt, that all consuming burn reignite. She fought to contain a moan. “Are you afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?”

Oh, but this was filthy. And shameful. And _wonderful_. She couldn’t help the thought that Myranda would be impressed. Not that she would ever tell that gossip about _this_.

Lost. She was lost in the feel of him. In his kisses; his touch. If only she’d realized he was interested earlier. Granted, she was underage for most of the time they’ve worked together, but somehow Sansa didn’t think a trivial matter like that would have stopped Petyr Baelish.

As their tongues entwined, her fingers explored, desperately seeking to rid him of this oppressive piece of costuming, wanting to feel all of him. A finger snagged the zipper in back, and slowly she dragged it down, letting the nails of her free hand scrape against the newly uncovered skin in its wake. Petyr groaned into her mouth, pressed his erection against her harder.

He sat up, his eyes raking over her as though she were fine meal placed before him. He licked his lips. “I think it’s time to see what other goodies you’re hiding beneath this very tempting ensemble, Little Red.”

With help, he rid her of the jumper and blouse. The red cape still pooled atop his desk. At the reveal, Petyr’s mouth went dry. He circled her where she stood, letting the pads of his fingers play over her skin. The need to bury himself deep in her perfection held at bay only by the most tenuous thread of control. 

Sansa stood there nervously, not meeting his eyes. Pink tipped nipples barely concealed by a virtually see-through demi cup bra. A delicate lace garter belt holding up the opaque white tights that covered her long legs, and not a scrap covering those beautiful, slick lips between her thighs, or the infinitely grabbable globes of her ass.

Petyr stopped behind her, discarding the rest of his costume that had been hanging loosely, pushing his painful erect cock into the crevice of her cheeks, letting her feel just what she was doing to him. “White lace,” he groaned into her shoulder. Sansa trembled as his hands slipped around her. “Do you have any idea how badly I want to fuck you right now?” One hand slipped between her legs, index and middle making furious circles. The other a gentle massage at her breast. 

A strangle cry escaped her throat, and her fingers wrapped around the wrist that worked her so mercilessly down below. “Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Fuck me.”

“Is that what you want, Sansa?” His fingers dipped lower. “Do you want my cock here?” He pressed into her and her knees went weak. “Do you want me to fill you full of my cum?”

 _I have condoms._ The thought floated just out of reach, hidden in the mist of fresh satiation. 

So that’s not what came out. “Yes.”

There was no warning. Petyr whipped her around, picked her up and deposited her on the edge of the desk before she’d barely taken another breath. No sooner had his lips found hers then he was aligning himself, burying himself deep without further pretense. It hurt at first, but he kept moving, pumping roughly into her even as tears pricked at her eyes. She was still so sensitive from his earlier attentions, it didn’t take much for the pain to subside, to rekindle that spark into an inferno. She was on fire, her core an epicenter of molten heat.

“Fuck, sweetling,” he panted. “You feel so good.” His voice was strained. Sweat beaded on his brow. The movement of his hips growing more and more erratic. "I need you to come for me, baby." His thumb found her, flicked wildly over the nub that sat above where they were joined, and Sansa felt her insides clench around him. “Girl good,” he soothed. “My good girl. My perfect girl.” The litany of praise that flowed from his mouth only drove her towards climax faster, made her work harder to meet his every thrust.

It hit Sansa harder this time, and she muffled her strangled voice into his neck when it struck; her nails drawing blood from his shoulders where she inexorably clung. She could feel it trickle in places, and even that pain didn’t slow him down. Petyr said he wanted to fuck her, and that’s precisely what he meant. 

Petyr continued his onslaught, bottoming out inside her. It was almost painful, but it was the good sort of pain. Like pressing repeatedly on a bruise just to feel the wash of relief afterward. Then, one last push and his whole countenance stiffened. A roar ripped from his throat as his emptied himself into her. Another moment, and he collapsed against her, held up only by the combined strength of their arms.

He recovered enough to lift himself from her, and it was silly how she found herself not quite able to meet his gaze — suddenly self-conscious about sitting virtually naked and thoroughly fucked on his desk. Petyr cupped her chin between his index and thumb, forcing her to look at him, and she found herself mirroring his easy smile as he leaned in for a kiss. This one gentle, and not at all demanding.

“You never did answer my question?”

Sansa hummed in thought. “Which question was that again?”

“Are you afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” And oh that devilish grin he wore was enough to make her want to go again.

In reply, she snaked her arms around his neck, giving a gentle pull to the fur tufts that still decorated his ears. “Mmm… You forget,” Sansa responded before catching him up in another kiss, “The wolf is the one who should be afraid of me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Musical Inspiration:  
> [Bauhaus: Bela Legosi's Dead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zq7xyjU-jsU)  
> [Sam the Sham & the Pharaohs: Little Red Riding Hood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FA85RO89HA)
> 
> This is the first thing I've written in over a month, and while I'm sure it's riddled with issues, I'm still pretty damn pleased with it. Also, look at me, figuring out how to get proper em dashes in Google Docs. :D


End file.
